


Before the City

by Allowisp



Series: Better Days [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 17:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11063307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allowisp/pseuds/Allowisp
Summary: Edward built a life for himself, but Hugo Strange's new Arkham initiative threatens to tear it down.Batman might not be able to protect both the people he loves and his city.





	Before the City

**Author's Note:**

> As promised. Thank you to everyone who's given “After the Asylum” such a great reception. This one feels different, and it kept me stuck until I realized I was also attempting to squeeze in what's going to require a part three--that is, Edward playing a key role in Batman's investigation and survival in Arkham City.

“ _Batman must save Gotham.”_

Batman surveyed the wreckage of Gordon’s office.

The commissioner himself sat on his ransacked desk, chewing his bottom lip. He didn’t look up at Batman’s entrance. He never did these days. He just said, “Sorry about the mess.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I came in tonight, it was like this.” Gordon shrugged. “Security tapes are all shot, but I’ve got a good guess who broke in.”

Batman knelt. He found Gordon’s empty box of cigars. He turned it over and performed a fingerprint scan.

“Yep,” said Gordon. “Even took those old things. Strange must want you pretty bad.”

“I’m sorry I got you involved in this.”

“Ah.” Gordon pulled his glasses off his nose. He polished them and squinted through the amber light of the failing bulb overhead. “The thing is, Batman, I’m a policeman. I signed up for this. The way I see it, you’re just another civilian, whoever you are behind that mask. I’m supposed to be taking hits for you.”

“Don’t. I should have been here.” Synthetic fibers and skin cells. Gunpowder mixed with oil. Data scrolled over Batman’s field of vision. He only ever saw red, orange, and silver now. It had gotten to where he felt strange when he looked at Gotham without detective vision, simply through his own eyes. “What else did Strange’s crew take?”

“Everything. He’ll know about Nygma in hours or days, depending on how fast he reads.”

“Hours, most likely. Thanks, Gordon. I’ll arrange surveillance around the building. You’ll have warning if they come back.”

###

On his way across Gotham, Batman received an alert that the Arkham City measure had passed.

And an instant after that alert, he heard screams and gunshots.

Strange must have been waiting a long time for this moment. A quick glance at the cowl's integrated map revealed the villain's crew stood poised outside every prison and every suspect's apartment. Career criminals would be on Strange's list. Housebreakers, too. Vandals. Political opponents. Parolees. Runaway kids in juvie. Anyone with a record and a debt left to pay. It didn't matter. All herded up into Arkham City—a device designed to collect human bodies, and then to transmute them into political power in a manner almost alchemical.

Batman recently placed someone in a gray area of the system, in the cracks. Edward Nygma had very quietly been given a second chance. Gotham transferred him to a private prison that didn't actually exist and which had endless ways of delaying requests for records. Edward was released after the prison appealed to the federal circuit. The appeal included a beautifully worded letter explaining the tight budget and limited space at the private prison, along with extensive documentation supporting the suitability for release of the inmate in question. Aides purged Edward's name and other identifying information from the documents in accordance with internal privacy policy. These details were available if requested, but of course no one did. Everyone with the opportunity to block the appeal had little interest in doing so, since everything checked out on the surface, and also because they'd all received expensive tickets for events they would miss if they deliberated for too long, courtesy of a Wayne subsidiary.

Bruce Wayne thought of everything, and Batman hated it. He shouldn't have to take advantage of the system's corruption to purify it. He shouldn't have to break the law to make sure Gotham's underworld couldn't flippantly do the same. But even Wayne's measures wouldn't be enough if Strange took a moment to examine them, if he gave Edward a _thought_ , if he developed the slightest suspicion or curiosity about how the Riddler was doing...

But he didn't.

But he would.

It was always only a matter of time, Batman knew. He wished he and Edward had more time. One more year, maybe. One more week together. One more night where they turned out the lights and nurtured something that was starting to feel like trust. You always think you'll have a little more time. Maybe not a lot, but a little. Two hours. One hour. Fifteen minutes.

Maybe they had fifteen minutes.

Batman climbed into Edward’s apartment through the window. He carried a key, but old habits die hard. He found Edward in the dining room, sitting cross-legged on the ten-seat table, flanked by dirty bone china plates engraved with the work of Maurits Escher. The former Riddler faced mahogany shelves of curios and foreign books set into his wall with his chin propped on his fist, and he held some kind of certificate in his other hand. He’d fixed up his apartment nicely in the months since he moved in.

Bruce Wayne would have commented on that, but Batman couldn’t. Wayne's associates expected comments on décor, while Batman's wouldn't believe their ears. Wayne often hated the obligation. Batman couldn't say anything in these rare times when he wanted to.

Edward noticed him after he got within two feet. He sat up straight and turned his certificate over so Batman couldn’t see its face. “Finally!” he declared. He smirked the way he did when he presented a perfect riddle. “Did you know I’ve been sitting here all day? Or at least since I finished dinner.”

“What’s that?”

“My arm is long. My reach is great. I never forget those I hate. But I am old. I’m always late. Who hunts those I let escape?”

“You have a cynical view of the criminal justice system.”

“Every case was starting to look the same. I need the freedom to pursue other, coincidentally more lucrative, avenues. In _addition_ to my police work, which doesn’t take all day.” Edward flipped the certificate around. “Voila! I’m a private investigator.”

Oh.

“I thought I’d fail the background check, but Gordon insisted I include him as a reference. He must really be tired of me. He’s a liar. All police are. Thin blue line, thin blue lies. But I’m not fooled by the charade, oh no. He can’t seriously consider me—how did he put it?—one of the foremost contributors to his civilian force. What? Did I surprise you?”

Yes, and not for the first time. Edward was the only person in Bruce’s life who could consistently manage that.

“Haven’t you got anything to say?”

Edward built a life for himself. He did everything the system asked. On Batman’s urging, he gave it a try, and for a while he didn’t get kicked around. It almost worked. _They’d_ almost worked, in a way that defied definition. But there were no happy endings in Gotham—only brief reprieves and hands clasped in the nights that would never stop growing darker.

“Well? I’m waiting.”

Bruce lost sight of Edward’s proud smile when he wrapped his former enemy in a hug. In fact, he lost all actual awareness of what he was looking at.

“Batman? Batman?”

“It’s Arkham City.” Bruce drew back enough to look Edward in the eyes. “They’re going to do it. The mayor is complying with all demands. Just announced. Not sure how, what I missed, what law it’s based on. Doesn’t matter. I couldn’t stop them.”

“Stupid!” Edward jerked back. He slapped his license down on the table. He threw his hands up in the air. “Idiots! Does nobody else here see why that’s a bad idea? Sure, let’s put all the degenerates in one place, because that worked out so well the last time. And while we’re at it, let’s ghetto them up in the middle of the city. Under Hugo Strange—again! It’s going to be a massacre. And then they’ll break out, and I won’t see you for a week.” The infamous Riddler stormed around the table, gesticulating grandly, glancing at him all the time.

“It might be worse than that.” Batman followed Edward with his eyes.

“Why?” Edward stopped short. “Who all’s going in that rat trap? Do they think they can keep Joker contained?”

“More than him. Yes. They do. Everyone who used to be in Arkham Asylum.”

“Oh. But that doesn’t include me, surely.”

Batman's silence said everything.

“No!” hissed Edward. “It can’t be. You're wrong. You have to be wrong! That's not legal. I work for the police now. I _know_!”

“There's a list,” said Batman. “You're on it, despite everything. The Arkham City bill packs unprecedented... overrides.”

Edward stared at Batman, wild eyed. “But that's not right. Not legitimate. There's no way. I won’t be hunted down like some lowlife. I can't. I’m serving this city now. For a paycheck. It’s on the record. I’ve gone straight.” He buried his fingers in the red hair fluffed out from the back of his head. “Well, not straight, exactly, but not the other way either. We’ve been over that one before.” He shied away, walking on the outside edges of his feet, leering at the tablecloth, fingers twisting in his hair.

He was skittish, thought Batman, and often prickly. That much hadn’t changed. It was still touch and go between them in more ways than one. But some things were okay now. Some things were good. Batman caught Edward's shoulder and pulled him against his armored chest.

“Uncomfortable,” complained Edward. He was a good actor, but he was trembling.

“I’m sorry,” said Batman. “I tried everything. I thought I knew a way out of the city. I tested it with Catwoman last night. But she didn’t—and he was expecting us. I’m so sorry, Edward.”

“Out with it, Bat. What are you trying to say? Does he know where I am? Is he coming here?” Edward’s heart sped up. It flickered like a light going haywire in Batman’s detective vision overlay. “Help me. You’ve got to help me.”

“Strange keeps taking away my options. Gordon can’t stop him. The arrests aren’t humane. Strange took Gordon’s files. He’ll see we let you out. He’ll broadcast it and use the public’s fear. He knows you can hurt him from the inside. He'll tell his goons not to take you alive.”

“The PI application,” whispered Edward. “What if I tipped him off?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t. I might as well not have tried.”

Edward had looked for other jobs. He said he needed to make it on his own. He said he still didn’t know how many blocks away from police headquarters he would have had to live if that rich boy Bruce Wayne hadn’t reached in with an initiative in time and changed this neighborhood's zoning.

Landlords didn’t like tenants with histories like Edward’s, and while normally Bruce understood their position, now he found himself intimately aware of how few options awaited former inmates once they took the bus back into Gotham—that is, except a return to crime. Bruce still thought it naïve to expect a bank robber or drug dealer—or an attempted murderer, a kidnapper, a serial poisoner, he reminded himself, exactly like Edward—to change and become an upstanding citizen, but _something_ ought to be available to them.

He thought he hated criminals with all his heart, but these things changed when he knew somebody. As soon as he entertained exceptions, he saw fallibility in the rules. Rationally, ethically, he still held a hard line on fighting crime and keeping criminals of the streets. But he didn't enforce it in the case of Edward, and as a result, he struggled emotionally to stand by it. He found an increasing proportion of his cardiac real estate these days devoting itself to those nights when Edward hid his face and called himself useless. _Nobody wants me out here. Why don’t you just lock me up again?_

And now, thought the man who juggled two masks, that was exactly what Batman would have to do.

“I hate asking this,” said Edward, “but you have to help me.”

Oh, how he wanted to.

Click.

Edward stiffened in Batman’s hold. He staggered back, looked at his arm. “What are you doing?” A steel cuff encircled his right wrist. He stared up into Batman’s cowl, dumbfounded. Their eye contact broke when Batman spun Edward around and locked his hands together behind his back. Click. It was like they never left Arkham.

Edward’s heart rate slowed down. It fell below normal parameters, past the level of sleep, and into the danger zone.

“I’m sorry,” said Batman.“I can't help you escape. I tried a way I thought was safe, but he was waiting. It's not a matter of whether you'll be caught, Eddie. It's when, and who.”

“So... So it's now. And it's you.”

“If I left it to Strange's men, they'd hurt you.”

Edward swallowed. He leaned sideways against Batman. “And somehow you thought this wouldn't hurt me.”

“Edward.” Batman laid a hand on his shoulder.

Edward recoiled. “Stop it! Don't touch me!” He took a step toward the kitchen. He stumbled. His knees gave out. Batman caught him from behind at the waist. “No, no.” His heart rate plummeted lower.

“Breathe and stay calm,” said Batman. He knew more about Edward now. He coaxed out guidelines, rules, instructions, committed to memory what Edward said he needed, and when. He strove to master all techniques for fighting on the streets, and in this battle, too. “One. Two.”

“I, I, I. I can't do this. My, my head's spinning. I can't see anymore. I'm cold. I can't...”

“Three. Four. Just a few seconds, Edward. Relax. Trust me. Breathe.”

“No, you don't get to, you don't get to say that. You don't get to, don't tell me to trust you.”

“It's only been a minute.”

“My arms hurt. I can't move my hands. It's, it's worse like this. And I can't—I hate it.”

Batman adjusted his hold. He counted against the curve of Edward's neck, just beneath his ear, tasting cold sweat. “One. Two. Three.”

Gradually Edward's vitals climbed back up. He shivered in Batman's arms. Bruce started to speak, but Edward cut him off. “I trusted you,” he whispered. “I thought this meant something. We can still go back. Let me go.”

“Edward, one day I hope you'll believe I'm not as smart as you. That I couldn't find a better way out. That this was the best I could do.”

It was an end like the beginning, except now Edward wasn't facing him. Someone not fully Batman or Bruce Wayne was putting on the chains instead of taking them off. He was confiscating what he'd once given with his last hope in the world for Edward and for himself. And he didn't allow himself to make more excuses, because he wasn't making this arrest only for Edward's sake, either.

Batman needed more time. He couldn't be declared a criminal yet. Batman had to be seen turning in the Riddler so that Strange couldn't hunt him down, too, in this first wave. Batman needed plausible deniability and protection just as much as Edward needed to be brought in by someone who wouldn't beat him within an inch of his life, or further, doing it.

Maybe Bruce Wayne could get this thing overturned. Maybe Commissioner Gordon could be protected. Maybe he could make it up to them, make it up to Edward, all these mistakes he'd made.

###

Batman drove toward the gates of Arkham City, with Edward handcuffed and curled away from him in the passenger's seat.

“I'm sorry,” said Batman. Just in case. One last time.

“I never should have trusted you,” said Edward. “I never should have let you see me like that. Let you use me, make me lean on you while I squirm. I won't make that mistake again.”

Batman clenched his jaw. Tried to keep his mouth shut. Be the laconic, harsh, distant vigilante he was supposed to be. Repeating himself, justifying his actions... That would only break more at this point. He knew he should stop trying.  
  


“You know,” said Edward, “the sad thing is, I think I know how they did it. Roman law has been cited before. In fact, yes, in fact, in the Nuremberg trials—”

I know what you’re doing, thought Bruce. I know you feel exposed. I know you talk like this to cover it up. I know your head gets loud, because mine does, too. I wish I could say that I’d never hurt you, but I already have. Now I know it’s inevitable. I hurt you more the harder I try. “Eddie,” he tried again, and he knew he would regret it.

“—one of the judges absolutely insisted on prosecuting some parties under natural law. Natural law! I ask you. That’s the opposite of objectivity. A little like you, in a sense. Preaching justice, wreaking vengeance. You need your pound of flesh, you horrible hypocrites.” Edward kept his head turned away at an uncomfortable angle. “I’m all for rendering each man his due, but who gets to measure that? Even if there is such a thing as justice, we don’t understand it.”

“It’s out there.” It had to be out there. “Eddie, I wish there was another way.”

“No good puzzle has an easy solution. No elegant third options exist. That’s for cheaters.” Edward’s voice was barely an exhale. “Why can't you cheat now? Clearly, you don't want to. You want to bring me in. You're tired of me. You're impatient. Selina gives you what I can't, doesn't she?”

“Edward, that isn't it. I'll come for you there. I'll tear down Arkham City. I'll make it up to you, make this right.”

“Don't lie to me. Don't waste your breath. I know now I was right all along, and next time I'll be the one standing over you.”

“I'll beat him.”

“Ha, Strange? He, he's nothing compared to me. The doctor always was too fond of playing mind games. Thankfully, he’s bad at them. He thinks he knows the rules. I found a line into his computer when I was in Arkham. We had a chat. He underestimates me. I'm stronger on my own. I think I'll steal this case from you.”

I hope you're right, thought Batman, I hope you do beat him, because I'm starting to doubt that I can.

###

After he delivered Edward into Gordon's few remaining loyal officers' hands, Batman drove back around the police precinct and slipped into Gordon's office.

The old commissioner had almost cleaned up his desk. Broken glass filled a plastic wastebin beside it. Electric light spilled over the burnt carpet like gin.

Gordon stood beside the remains of his case board across the room. Shreds of mugshots hung from it like plaintive fingers. Gordon lit a cigarette before he looked at Batman. “You know,” he said, “there was one night I had ten open cases in my desk. Sergeant was pressing me to call ‘em cold. But I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t quit. Because the ones you can’t close are the ones that stay with you forever. I know that sarge never slept either, the goddamn hypocrite.”

“When did you go home?”

“Tonight? I haven't. Back then? Around two.”

“Go home.”

“I'll go home when you do.”

They shared a bitter smile. Going home didn't exist anymore for people like them. Maybe it never did. But they'd still struggle and fight to claim something like it in a city that couldn't be saved. Again and again they dragged Gotham back from hell and prayed the people they loved would still be alive inside some corner of its charred skeleton.

“Batman,” said Gordon, “promise me you'll do something.”

Name it, thought Bruce, and allowed Batman to stoically lift his head.

Gotham's underworld would do well to remember where Batman learned his paralyzing, electrified, steely gaze. Gordon's eyes vowed rapid dismemberment for Hugo Strange's soul. He cast his two-cent cigarette into the bin of broken glass and told Batman: “Get my best analyst back.”


End file.
